


Truth I'd Rather Lose Than To Have Never Lain Beside At All

by Never_Says_Die



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Says_Die/pseuds/Never_Says_Die
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Walking Dead Kink Meme:</p><p>Marriage during the Zombie Apocalypse. There was no honeymoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _Love is patient, love is kind..._ "

You aren't too sure about this group of people you and your brother have fallen in with. Sure, if ever there was a time for 'safety in numbers' you figure it's now, while the dead are refusin' to do the sensible thing and stay _dead_. Besides, Merle may be the only kin you got now, and you've got each other's backs to Hell and back...but that don't mean his company's suddenly gotten easier to bear. So it's nice to have other people around to distract Merle, even if you are gettin' tired of heading off fights 'cause Merle never did learn when to just keep his mouth shut. 

Still, there's an appalling lack of plain common sense in this camp, and if one more person comes up to you an' asks if somethin' is poison or not, you won't be responsible for your actions. It's a damn simple concept...if you seen the animals and birds eatin' it, you likely won't keel over from it. If not, leave it alone. Damn city folk. Though really, you suppose it's a good thing more of 'em wouldn't know what to do in the woods if they had a platoon of Green Berets and an instruction manual with 'em, cause otherwise you suspect you and your brother would've been tossed out on your ears by now. 

You are cleaning the shotguns you and Merle managed to salvage from your pa's gun cabinet before the old man tried to take a bite out a' Merle (you prefer the silence of your bow, but you been doing weapons maintenance since you was six years old...it's ingrained) when the chink shuffles over to the little area you and Merle have set up your tent. He's been watching you for the past ten minutes, only comin' over when Merle tossed his own weapons back in the bed of the truck and stalked off into the woods. 

"Hey," the kid says, kicking his toe in the dirt and shifting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders. You grunt out an acknowledgement, not takin' your eyes off the gun barrel in your lap. "So..." the kid starts again, but trails off almost immediately. You huff out a sigh, glaring up at him. You accept that most of these people would rather talk to you than your brother when somethin' needs to be passed along, but damned if you will sit here and let them waste your time. He quails slightly, and you smirk at him meanly. 

"What you want, chinaman?" You start snapping the gun back together, and spit in the dirt at his feet just because you know he thinks it's disgusting. Sure enough, the flash of heat that had entered his eyes when you called him the name dies as his nose wrinkles. He sighs heavily, pullin' the brim of his stupid baseball cap down over his forehead. 

"Look, I'm going on a supply run in Atlanta. You and your brother need anything?"

You snort derisively. "Yeah, pick up my dry cleanin' and grab a couple a' lattes from Starbucks."

"Seriously," the kid says earnestly, and you cock an eyebrow. "I mean...look, you guys do a lot around here to bring food in---if there's anything you'd like from the city, I just thought..." the kid trails off again and you just stare at him for a moment. 

You know the kid doesn't take special requests--the supply runs are for canned food, medicine, and ammo. Sometimes he tries to bring back candy or crayons or something for the little ones, but that cop who's declared himself king of the camp makes sure people know not to ask for things. Yet here the kid is, watching you with a little smile and hopeful eyes that make him look like a damn Disney character, asking you if he can bring you back anything to...what? Say thank you for feedin' his ass? You aren't sure what to do with that. 

"Nah," you say dumbly, "we're good." You glance past him to see Merle coming back up the path that leads from the quarry. Instantly, automatically, you hunch your shoulder, hardening your gaze and spitting in the dirt again. This time you his his shoe. "'Sides, what makes ya' think we want anything from _you_? We take care a' our own damn selves." You put as much emphasis as you can in, know he catches the insult, and for just a moment you see real anger in his eyes, but then Merle is swaggering up to where you are sitting. 

"What you doin' over here, slant-eye?" he demands brashly, and there is viciousness in his voice that you can't rightly say you've ever felt. The kid bristles, but almost immediately is duckin' away, hitching his backpack up as he goes. Merle claps you on the shoulder as he moves past you. You watch the kid walk away, but just before he slips around the RV he looks back at you. 

He doesn't look angry anymore. In fact, as his eyes track between you and Merle, you think you see somethin' in his face that's almost...pity. 

The thought pisses you off.

  
 _"It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud..._ "

  


Technically, no one is supposed to leave camp after dark. It's actually a good rule. The roof of the RV has great line of sight in all directions, and Jesus Christ, these people can barely seem to handle walkin' in the woods at high noon. No one needs to be wandering off late at night and getting lost and/or eaten by a stray Walker. It's a smart rule. You and Merle never really gave a damn about the rules even before the apocalypse, though, and the rest of the camp quickly learned not to mess with either of you. 

You are returning from a late-night walk (you and Merle have not been asked to take nightwatch shifts yet...you suppose it's possible the cop is letting you out of it since you and Merle do so much hunting, but you think it's more likely they just don't trust you to watch their backs properly) when you hear a soft noise from up top on the RV.

"Psst! Hey, psst! Daryl!" The whisper-shout reaches your ears and you look up in surprise. The chink kid is standing on on the edge of the RV roof, looking down at you. 

You didn't know he actually knew your first name. You struggle to think of his for a moment before you remember that you don't care. 

The kid is shiftin' restlessly from foot to foot, one of the camp's precious rifles balanced on his shoulder. You suck on your teeth for a moment, debating, but it's too late to pretend you didn't hear. 

"What?"

"Can you, uh, can you take watch for a minute?" The kid's face is deep in shadow, but enough light is cast by the dying fires (and holy shit, are you and Merle the only ones who know how to bank a campfire around here? Do these idiots think matches just grow on trees?) that you can see he looks intensely embarrassed. Despite yourself, you're intrigued. 

Then it clicks...the restless shifting, the embarrassment, the slightly desperate expression on his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in your throat and the sound surprises you at least as much as it seems to surprise him. You cover it with a cough, but you can't keep your lips from twistin' into a smirk. "What's a' matter, boy? You forget to bring a bottle up there with ya?"

"Man, c'mon!" the kid hisses. "I gotta take a leak. Just...please?"

You roll your eyes, but hell, ain't like you're especially eager to get back to the tent and Merle's godawful snoring. You nod shortly, and move around to the back ladder. You scramble up, and the look of relief on the kid's face is comical. He shoves the rifle into your hands and shimmies down the ladder as quickly as he can. You shake your head and take a quick survey of the sleeping camp. 

The boy returns quickly, pulling himself up over the edge of the roof with a sigh of contentment. "Geez, dude, _thank you_."

You shrug one shoulder, handin' the gun back over and shifting the ever-present weight of the crossbow into a more comfortable position on your back. The kid yawns as he settles back in one of two plastic lawn chairs that have been set up under a beat up, old sun umbrella. You are about to get down off the RV and head for your tent when a stray thought occurs to you. 

"Ain't it the spic's turn for watch t'night?" The words are out before you think about it, and the kid turns surprised eyes on you. But you're sure you're right--china-boy just got back from another supply run last night and they never make him take watch right after he goes down into the city. 

You aren't entirely sure _why_ you know that, but whatever. The kid is watching you with an expression that is a strange mix of amused and pissed off. 

"Okay, seriously--do you actually believe the crap that comes out of your mouth?" He looks at you like he's actually expectin' an answer, and the sheer balls of that distracts you momentarily from your instinctive desire to punch him in the face. You settle for glaring balefully at him. Incredibly, the kid holds your gaze, though you don't miss the way he subtly hunches in on himself a little bit. After a few moments, the kid breaks off the staring contest, nodding to himself as though you had given him some answer. " _Morales_ ," he stresses the name carefully, "asked if I would trade him slots tonight." His voice lowers slightly. "It's their anniversary today--they wanted to just have some family time." 

You make a low sound of disgust in the back of your throat. 'Family time'. Right. Who the hell is doin' shit like that these days? The kid, though, doesn't look like he thinks the sp--Morales is being stupid. He's just sittin' there, taking the man's watch a scant few hours after he got back from Walker Central so he can have some time with his wife and kids. 

"So Speedy Gonzales is gettin' some, while you sit up here doin' nothin'." You're not sure why you're bothering to keep the conversation going. Maybe it's cause this kid is the only other person in camp besides Merle who's willing to talk to you beyond the bare minimum communication necessary.

"Morales is enjoying time with his family and I'm happy to let him. Those things are important, now. Maybe more than they ever were before. 'Sides...not like I have anybody waiting for me back in my tent." And the kid should sound bitter, jealous. What thanks is he gettin' for this? What thanks does he get for any of the stuff he does? Does that cop think anyone else in this camp would have the balls to keep going down into the city the way this kid does?

But he's not bitter, he's not jealous or angry. He doesn't expect thanks...he just does all of it because he thinks it's right. You've never met anyone like that before, and hell if you aren't a little intrigued. 

So when the kid hesitantly jerks his chin at the other chair, askin' if you want to sit a while, you find yourself dropping down into it without a word. You unsling the crossbow and set about checking the string and the fletching on the bolts by the light of the battery-powered lantern hanging from the pole of the umbrella. The kid watches you silently for a few moments before turning his attention back to the camp's perimeter. 

"Glenn," he says at length and you look up, a little startled. 

"Huh?"

"My name. It's Glenn. Feel free to use it in place of any of those half-dozen backwoods slurs you've been throwing my way." The words are combative, but the tone lacks any sort of heat. In fact, the kid has a little half-grin quirking his mouth. Merle would beat the shit out of him just on general principle at this point...but you just raise an eyebrow. 

"Like I give a damn," you mutter, and the kid laughs a little, like the two of you are sharing a joke. 

You stay up on the roof until someone comes to relieve the kid a couple hours later.

  


" _Love is not rude, it is not self-seeking..._ "

  


As hard as it is to believe, life in the quarry camp settles into a routine. There's a few more survivors who have trickled in, but there haven't been any new faces for goin' on two weeks now. By now, you figure anyone who survived the outbreak has either found a bolt hole of their own or, quite frankly, has been eaten. 

Your days consist mostly of hunting and trying to head off the worst of any fights Merle gets it in his head to start. When you think about it, you have to chuckle darkly at the fact that the goddamn End of the World hasn't really changed your life much at all. Granted, you think a few people in camp could do with a good beat down courtesy of your big brother--starting with that damn cop who's always tryin' to tell everyone what to do. 

But the satisfaction of splittin' Mr. Shane fuckin' Walsh's face open ain't worth getting thrown out of camp over. So you keep to yourself as much as possible, and try to make sure Merle does the same. In the mean time, you keep fresh game coming into the camp to offset the days when Merle absolutely has to be an asshole to someone. Jesus H. Christ, you aren't looking forward to getting Merle through withdrawal again, but at the same time, you can't help but hope his stash runs out sooner rather than later. Your brother's a bear to deal with when he's tweakin'.

You settle down, straddling the log you and Merle dragged up to your firepit a couple of weeks ago with your knife and the day's catch. You've been fortunate today---you only went out for a couple hours this morning and managed to snag two decent-sized rabbits and a couple squirrels. Not really enough to feed the entire camp, but tossed into a pot with some beans and other vegetables, they'll make a nice stew. You nudge the plastic bucket you use to haul the guts and blood out into the trees to be buried into position by your foot and lay the first rabbit belly-up on the log between your legs. You are about to make the first cut when footsteps sound from behind you. 

"Hey. What're you doing?"

It's the kid. Of course it's the kid. Not even the few members of the camp who talk to you when there's business to discuss ever come over when you've got a blade in your hands. Although what n' the hell they think you'd do if they ever interrupted you is beyond you. Ain't killed the chi...the kid yet, have you?

"What's it look like m' doin'?" The boy drops down to sit on the ground on the other side of the firepit. Uninvited, you might add. 

"It looks like you're about to dismember Bugs Bunny...oh God, that's gross." As he's talking, you make a swift incision, splittin' the rabbit's abdomen open without puncturing the organs. 

"You wanna eat it, gotta get your hands dirty some," you mutter, grabbing the carcass and flipping it over the bucket. The offal spills out of the body cavity with a wet squelch, intestines trailing out and giving you room to get in with the knife and cut a few pieces of connective tissue. 

"Oh,I wanna eat it," the kid answers, staring in horrified fascination, "but you are welcome to do all the dirty hands work."

With anyone else, such a statement would piss you right the hell off. Just like these soft jackasses to whine and moan about how hungry they are, but turn their noses up at doing a little extra work for their food. Boy gets a pass though...he pulls his weight and more around here and you can respect that. 

This is another part of the routine of camp that you really can't figure out--the kid. More specifically, the way he keeps hangin' around. Not...not a lot, mind you. He never appears when Merle's around--which is, after all, most of the time. And it's not like he pops up every time Merle disappears down to the quarry or heads off into the woods. Just--you're no longer surprised when you look up and find him there when you have a moment to yourself.

You know Merle would blow a gasket if he ever noticed. Your brother ain't never been the 'tolerant' type and though the kid isn't his favorite target (that's definitely the darkie), he does take delight in windin' the boy up. You, though--well you don't like the kid. But you can't really say you mind him, either. He's useful and he doesn't give you shit like some of the others do. So long as that keeps up, you don't see any reason to give him a hard time. 

'Sides...occasionally, it's nice to talk to someone who isn't your brother. 

"So there's a pool up in the RV on whether or not Shane and Lori are doing it. Pot's up to five night watch shifts, two Pepsis, a bar of Irish Spring, and two tampons. Want in?"

You take a moment to remember who the hell Shane and Lori are--oh yeah, the cop and the brunette who needs to eat a damn sandwich--and huff out a short bark of laughter. "No bet. They need to learn how ta' be quiet. Morons." He gapes at you and you set the gutted rabbit aside to start working on the other one. 

"Seriously?" he demands. 

"Well if it's s'posed ta' be a secret they might wanna consider going more n' twenty feet away from camp," you grunt, then freeze as the rest of what he just said registers. "Y'all are bettin' tampons over there?" you say incredulously. He shrugs. 

"Amy threw 'em in. Couple of the ladies were pretty excited. Man, I can't believe it." 

You shrug and go back to work on the rabbits. The kid sits in silence, just watching you and making the occasional face as you quickly and efficiently gut your kills. You don't mind it--but you don't really understand why he keeps doing this. He has friends here (apparently the kind of friends that bet on other people's sex lives with hygiene products), other people who enjoy his company. You tolerate him, but it ain't like you ever go seeking him out. Hell, you barely even talk to him when he does come over. You aren't friends. Here he is, though, poking at the embers of your fire with a stick and just sitting in companionable quiet. 

"I'm going back down to Atlanta in a few days. Found a way into one of those big department stores down on Decatur Street. We need more blankets and sleeping bags. The one I'm heading to had a pretty big sports department...pretty sure the guns and ammo all got cleaned out, but there might be some stuff for your bow." He doesn't ask this time, perhaps remembering what happened the last time he offered to get you anything from Atlanta. You look at him for a moment before finally deciding the hell with it, and stab your knife into the dirt by your feet. 

You get up and head over to your truck, wiping your hands on your jeans as you go. The little, empty tube is laying on the floor of the truck right where you remember, and you pick it up. You head back over to the log and toss the bottle into the kid's lap as you sit back down and grab the knife again. 

"More a' that. Or anythin' that says rail lube or beeswax." You've got a couple more tubes in your tent, and you're meticulous about cleaning the crossbow...but having extra certainly won't hurt. And it ain't like you can just drive down to Bass Pro Shop anymore and buy some. Glenn grins and nods, pocketing the bottle as he gets to his feet. 

"I'll do my best. It's Carol's turn to cook tonight, so you can just bring those to the RV when you're done." He shoots you a quick grin and wanders off, whistling softly to himself. 

You don't get it. You really don't. You're going to keep hunting for the camp, no matter what. It's your price of admission and exchange for people puttin' up with Merle's moods. Ain't like he has to be nice to you to keep his stomach full. You have no illusions about the kind of company you are, either. 

But he keeps showing up. Just to sit, to talk, to invite you to join stupid betting pools, even when you glare and call him names. What is he getting out of it? You don't consider that maybe the kid sees something in you worth liking. Three days later, the cop decides that a group can get more stuff from Atlanta that just the kid. Merle decides to go with them instead of ranging farther into the woods with you to try and bag a deer. 

When you get back to camp the next morning, the kid's motivations don't matter anymore.

  


" _Love is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs...._ "

  


You are safe.

_Safe._

You can't hardly believe it--safety is something that's been known by definition only for so long now. You follow the ragtag remains of the group through the eerily quiet halls of the CDC, submit to the doc's demanded blood test. You dump your gear with the others' things and the whole time, it's just echoin' in your head--you're safe. Grimes was right...he was right and he found you--what's left of you--safety. 

You join the others in the big cafeteria, the atmosphere already relaxed and celebratin' in a way no one has dared let it be in so, so long. There's food--still just canned goods and powdered protein, but it's the most delicious spread you ever tasted 'cause there's enough of it, enough for everyone to eat until they're full--and, more importantly to your way of thinkin', alcohol. 

It ain't a frosty can of beer (that right there would be 'Heaven,' not just 'safe') but the wine goes down easy and helps settle the jittery adrenaline still surging through your body. It's enough to cut through the constant loop of watchguarddanger! that you've been livin' in the past few months, and you even find yourself chuckling quietly at the increasingly drunken antics of some of the group. Lightweights. Merle would--

And your good mood is brought to a screechin' halt, right there. 

No one notices, of course. Ain't like you ever spent much time talkin' to 'em before. Glenn's the only person besides your brother in the whole damn camp you've had more than a couple of conversations with. Almost like it's got a mind of its own, your hand's reaching for another one of the wine bottles, sidling it close. Gonna take a hell of a lot more than some fancy red to get you as piss drunk as you suddenly want to be...but you're gonna give it a damn good shot. 

The party--and there really ain't no other word for it--winds down after Shane opens his big mouth and you all follow Jenner through more darkened hallways with different degrees of coordination. The mood perks back up when the doc mentions hot water, and everyone scrambles for the showers. 

The lack of proper bathin' hasn't been much of a problem for you. You were used to campin' for days on end and just rinsin' the worst of the day's sweat and grime off in cold creek water long before the world went and ended. Still, just cause you don't bitch and moan about bein' dirty don't mean you're gonna turn down an honest-to-God hot shower. 

You don't stampede with the others, but yeah, you're pretty quick to find an empty cubicle, and you decide that if ever there was a reason to be a little indulgent and soak longer than your customary five minute scrub and a rinse, this is it. You wrinkle your nose at the frou-frou smellin' soap and shampoo, but ultimately shrug and resign yourself to smellin' like a damn fruit salad. 

Ain't like Merle's around to give you shit about it. 

The thought hits you like a punch to the gut and you lean tiredly against the wall of the shower, lettin' the hot water pound down on the back of your neck as you watch a dingy mix of dirt, soot, and blood turn the water nearly black as it swirls down the drain. You ain't--you ain't had time to process anything. Not with what happened in Atlanta, or at the camp. It's all been react, react, react!

Merle is probably dead. 

You don't want to believe it...you want to think what you told Grimes is true: no one can kill Merle but Merle. Truth is, though, your brother may be the toughest asshole you ever did see, but it's just as likely (more likely) that he got swarmed as soon as he left the relative safety of the building. You want to believe that Merle is the one who stole the truck y'all drove down to Atlanta in...but you know what the chances of that actually are. 

Which begs the question--why n' the hell are you still with the people that left your brother to die like a dog on that roof?

You clench your eyes shut, slam the meaty side of your fist into the unforgiving wall of the shower. It makes you sick. Sick to think of Merle chained up like a rabid animal, just left defenseless for the Walkers, not able to even run! They didn't even have the decency to put a bullet in his head...forced him to cut his own damn hand off to get away. Merle weren't much, but he was all you had in the world. 

Why are you still with the people who as good as murdered the only kin you gave a damn about? Why did you defend the camp with everything you had, trusting the others to watch your back, when the Walkers attacked? Why didn't you strike out on your own, the way the sp--Morales an' his family did, instead of followin' Grimes?

You think...you think you know the answer to that, though. 

You rinse the last of the soap from your hair and body, then shut the water off. You snag one of the towels left out on the bathroom counter and nudge your dirty clothes with one foot. They're crusted with sweat, gore, and God knows what else, and you sigh softly. Oh, fuck it. Just cause you don't put up a fuss about wearin' dirty clothes don't mean you like it. You saw some clean sweats left in the room where you dumped your stuff earlier that looked like they'd be a pretty close fit. 

You dress quickly and then sink down onto the couch, a little at a loss for what to do now. It strikes you again that you don't have to be on guard tonight. You can sleep in perfect safety, sleep for as long as you want. When you wake up, you will still be safe; there will still be enough food and you will not have to be on constant guard for Walkers. When you wake up, your brother will still be gone. You will still be with the people who left him to die. 

You groan softly, runnin' your hands back through your damp hair. You are exhausted--a little bit shaky, a little bit drunk, and your thoughts are buzzin' in your skull like a swarm of angry bees. You are debating whether you want to go get another bottle of alcohol to try and quiet them enough to fall asleep when there is a hesitant knock on the door. 

You look up sharply, narrowing your eyes. You are opening your mouth to tell whoever it is that this room's already been snagged when the knock comes again. 

"Daryl?" The voice is just as hesitant as the knocking, and you deflate. 

Glenn. 

You are surprised as hell, an' at the same time, you're not at all. You scrub your hands over your face, before lurching to your feet. Glenn's hand is raised to knock a third time when you wrench the door open. He's fresh from the shower as well, dressed in gym shorts and a baggy t-shirt. He's swaying a little on his feet and blinks owlishly as he realizes you're only dressed in a pair of slightly-too-large sweatpants, riding low on your hips. 

"You want somethin'?" you ask, and the kid's eyes snap to your face. He blinks again, and you can't help bein' a little amused. Boy can't hold his drink for shit. 

"Can I talk to you?" he asks softly, only a tiny slur to his words an' you can tell just from his expression that he thinks you're gonna refuse. 

You should. 

He was there when they cuffed your brother to that fuckin' roof...he didn't try to stop 'em. You should be just as pissed at him as you are with Grimes and the blonde bitch and the sonuvabitch who dropped the key. All of 'em are responsible for leavin' Merle there. 

But you know why you've stayed with them. 

You look at the kid and you think about all the times he came over an talked with you at camp, sat with you, and how it was almost nice. You think about how he was the only one in the camp who didn't piss you off on general principle. You think about how he trusted you to back him up in Atlanta and how he screamed for you when those damn cholos grabbed him--how your heart stopped for just a second before you immediately sprang after him. 

How he's 'Glenn' or 'kid' in your mind now...never any of those names you grew up listenin' to Merle and your pa hurl, the ones that have been trippin' off your own tongue since you could talk. 

You open the door wider and step aside. He looks surprised for a moment, but quickly sidles past you into the room proper. He just stands there, though, twisting his hands in the hem of his t-shirt and lookin' everywhere but at you. You shut the door and lean against it. The kid looks serious, like he's workin' up the courage to say something he thinks is important, and really neither a' you are sober enough (or drunk enough) for a serious conversation. He's got that bull-headed look about him, though, and you cock an eyebrow, waiting for him to say his piece. 

"I'm not sorry Rick did what he did on that roof." The words come out all in a rush, tripping over themselves and mangled with alcohol. You freeze for a brief second, wondering if you heard right...but the kid ain't done yet. "He'd have gotten us all killed, and I think you know Rick did the only thing he could've to save the rest of us." Glenn's shoulders are hunching in, as though he's already making himself a smaller target for the hits he thinks are comin'. His voice lowers. "I _am_ sorry he got left behind. I'm sorry you lost your brother." He presses his lips together, practically shaking at this point and the sight is enough to give you pause. 

You already have the answer to why you're still with this group. 

Merle was all you had in the world...but he weren't much. 

"I know," you sigh heavily, and let your head thump back against the door. Glenn's eyes go comically wide, and a rueful, bitter chuckle wells up in your throat. "What? I grew up with 'im, kid. Don't think I don't know what kind a' trouble Merle gets up to. Grimes, he ain't...y'all didn't have ta' help me look for Merle. Coulda just grabbed the guns an' left me there, too. I know that."

You hate what happened to your brother. You hate how much pain he must've been...you hate how scared he must've been that takin' up that saw and goin' at his own flesh was a better option. You hate Grimes a little bit for doin' that to Merle. But you understand...you ain't had no illusions about Merle since you was ten years old. An' in the end, Grimes done right by you and your brother when he had absolutely no reason to. 

It might be the longest sentence you've ever spoken to him. Judging by the way the kid's gaping at you, it probably is. You must be drunker than you thought if you're gettin' this talkative. Glenn is still staring at you, with that odd expression he gets sometimes...like he's lookin' straight through you. You bristle a little, out of habit, but the wine must be workin' on your tongue somethin' fierce because instead of ignorin' it like you usually do, you take a step forward. 

"Why you keep doin' this?" you demand, and the kid looks taken aback. 

"Doing what?"

"This!" Your hand waves vaguely between the two of you and yeah, you are drunk enough to be careless with your words and too sober for it not to matter. "Comin' in here, apologizin', actin' like you give a damn!" The kid flounders, still weaving from side to side, but you don't give him a chance to speak. "We ain't friends, kid! Ev'rythin' I say, ev'rythin' I do, why you keep actin' like we are?"

"Yeah, but you don't actually mean any of that!" Glenn shoots back, with the affronted certainty that only the very drunk can manage. He crosses his arms over his chest. "You're kind of an asshole, man, but we both know you would've just punched me in the face if you didn't want me hanging around." He stumbles forward a little, closing the distance between you and you let him, stunned to silence. Glenn is grinning dopily, now. "And maybe we aren't friends, but we could be...'cause you're not a bad guy, Daryl. I just think no one's ever given you a chance before."

He pushes into your personal space, and anyone else you would lay them clean out. But the kid's been carvin' out exceptions for himself since day one and there ain't no use denyin' it. You inhale, a touch shakily. "An' you're gonna keep givin' me chances ta' not be a bad guy, huh?" you mutter. The kid nods firmly, but ends up over balancing in his enthusiasm. He stumbles forward, and you automatically catch him, hooking your hands around his elbows, as his hands splay out on your bare chest. 

You freeze like that for a bare instant, but in that instant you swear you feel the whole atmosphere around you shift. The air feels heavier, somehow as the kid looks up at you with glazed eyes. You see it the second his gaze fastens on your mouth, and...

And you wonder dumbly if this is what this weird thing between the two of you has been leadin' up to all along. 

Your breath freezes in your chest and you feel it, you goddamn feel it when he leans in even closer, his hands suddenly hot on your skin. You're going to let it happen. For one timeless second, you're going to let it happen, and fuck a lifetime's worth of learned behaviors and hatreds...it's the goddamn Apocalypse; the rules don't apply anymore, people! But...

But.

"No." You say it softly, but it sounds like a gunshot going off in the silence of the room. Immediately, the kid reels back, hurt and embarrassment and a dozen other emotions flyin' across his face. His hands fall from your chest and you let go of him, stepping back towards the door. 

"Ya' wanna do that, you come find me when you're sober," you say firmly, but not unkindly. Glenn swallows heavily, blinking up at you with bleary eyes. 

"But you want me to come find you?" he asks, something shy and hopeful in his voice. You open the door, and you are surprised by how natural it feels when you answer him. 

"We'll talk tomorrow."

He smiles at you then, and to your shock you find yourself returning it. You watch him as he goes, weaving drunkenly down the hallway. It occurs to you vaguely that you should be freakin' right the fuck out--Merle would beat the shit outta you for even entertainin' the thoughts you are...and he'd fuckin' kill the kid. Merle ain't here, however. 

In the morning, you discover that the safe haven of the CDC really is too good to be true. You barely escape with your lives and you don't blame the kid for not seekin' you out when you finally make camp that night. But he doesn't come to you the next night. Or the night after.

It surprises you, how much it hurts.


	2. Chapter 2

" _Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth..._ "

 

You almost leave the group after Sophia is buried. 

You don't think the others know. Or maybe they do and they just don't care enough to try and stop you. You don't know anymore, and you tell yourself you don't give a damn either way. All you know is you sit alone, night after night, with your failures and your mistakes chasin' themselves around and around in your head. Bein' down with the group is no better. Watching Shane and Rick circle each other like angry dogs while everyone ignores the fact that Shane has lost his damn mind. Watchin' Carol struggle to find some kind of peace with losing her daughter. 

Watchin' Glenn and Hershel's daughter get closer and closer every day.

You watch it all and you feel the need to just get on the bike and go coiling like a snake in your chest. It winds tighter and tighter, knots of frustration and regret that you feel like you're chokin' on. 

You poke at the glowing coals of your fire with more force than is really necessary, sending up a shower of sparks. Being alone with your thoughts ain't never bothered you before, but damned if the end of civilization ain't made you realize how much you miss having the option of distraction. What you wouldn't give to be able to just kick back with some cold ones at that dive at the edge of your hometown, where you and Merle used to hustle pool. Or slide into a booth at that diner where the waitress always called you 'honey,' and have a cup of coffee. Or, God help you, sink down on your old couch and waste an hour watchin' some idiot reality TV series. Jersey Loser, or whatever the hell. 

Last you saw, though, there was a fire truck crashed through the front door of your old watering hole, that sweet old waitress was chowin' down on the short order cook, and your couch was covered in blood, brains, and the body of what used to be your pa. Youre stuck with your thoughts, and you should probably be worried about how often they turn t'the kid. 

How for the longest time, he was the only person in this little group that you could _stand_. How he was the only one you thought maybe wasn't just tolerating you 'cause you were good with the crossbow. How he kept comin' to you, kept tryin' to make you feel like you were a part of the quarry camp. How he's the only one who ever came close to apologizin' for what happened to your brother. You try not to, but you think about that night in the CDC. You remember the way his hands felt on your skin, how he leaned in towards you. In some moments, you wish you hadn't taken the damn high road, and just let the boy have his way, drunk or not. Hadn't that been just the biggest shock? You wish you'd let him kiss you. You're pretty damn sure you'd have kissed him back. 

Not that it matters. Glenn and the farm girl are damn near joined at the hip these days and all you can do is watch. 

And...well. You know it don't do no good to want things you can't have. Merle tanned that lesson into your hide when you was five years old and kept him up one too many nights cryin' for your mama after she left. " _Goddamn it, boy! She don't want us no more...man the fuck up an' stop bein' such a pussy!_ " 

You took the lesson to heart. You ain't pinin' after the kid like a damn girl. Ain't no point in it. Clearly the kid don't want you no more--if he ever did. Like every other damn disappointment in your life, you just have ta' swallow it and move on. You're tryin'. You are. Just...you ain't never been one to lie. You can misdirect with the best of 'em; you can distract with a flare of temper and a harsh word; you can outright ignore somethin' if you don't wanna talk about it. But you don't lie--not even to yourself. You know why you're still thinkin' about the kid, same as you knew exactly why you stuck with Rick and the group after what happened to Merle. 

Damned if somehow, somewhere along the line, that boy didn't carve out a piece of your heart and take it for his own. Damned if you didn't let him. Worst of all, damned if it matters one single whit now. 

So you huddle around your own fire, far away from the others' drama and far away from the kid. You sit with your doubts and regrets chasin' themselves in your head, and you don't expect anything to change. 

Then you lose the old man, and _everything_ changes. 

Twenty four hours later, the gunshot is still echoin' in your ears. You still feel the fine spray of blood settlin' on your skin. You still see the old man's miserable, pleading eyes every time you close your own. You see him feebly pressin' his head up against the barrel of the gun, begging for the only relief you could offer.   
You'd known it was too late as soon as you got a good look at the wound. Even as you screamed for help, for people to hurry, you knew there weren't nothing anyone could do. Hell, you don't think the old man would've made it even if there were still hospitals and surgeons around...he was all torn up.

You still hear the shot echoin' in your ears, but you ain't sorry you did it. Gut wound's one a' the most painful ways to go, and Rick was takin' too damn long. 'Sides...he'd been the one to put Sophia down, sparin' everyone else (yourself included) that misery. Didn't seem right to make him take Dale's death on his conscience as well, even if it was a mercy. You sit astride the bike in your little camp, just staring down at the farmhouse. T-Dog and Rick are diggin' yet another grave under that stand of trees, right next to Sophia's. Dale's body is wrapped in a tarp just behind them, and you don't want to look...but you can't seem to take your eyes off the cheap blue plastic. 

Don't seem right. The old man should have a proper coffin, a proper funeral. Not a rough hole lined with plastic. That's how you buried your old hound dog when you was a kid...people deserved--Dale deserved better than that. That's all that can be offered now, though. You rub absently at the back of your hand, and you'd almost swear you can still feel the misting droplets of blood. You should really get back down to the group. You should offer to help Rick and T-Dog dig the grave. You should check on Carol and Andrea, see how they're holdin' up. You should be doing any one of a hundred little things that need doin', but you can't bring yourself to move yet. 

He called you a decent man. 

No one, not in your entire life, has ever said that to you. You're a Dixon. In the sphere of your little hometown, that name meant a dozen different things: drunkard, bully, criminal. Never decent. The most that's ever been said about you was ' _well, he ain't as bad as that brother a' his._ ' Dale called you a decent man, though. He _meant_ it. Oh, you ain't stupid...you know the others have decided you ain't a bad guy. Carole's been kinder to you than you really deserve, and you know Rick trusts you. Andrea wouldn't have felt the need to apologize for shootin' you if she didn't care about you on some level. Even you and T-Dog get along okay. 

Glenn _always_ treated you like he knew there was something more to you than what you were showin'.

Dale was the first one who ever told you you was decent, though. 

Abruptly, you clench your hands into fists. Dale believed you was a decent man, but you ain't been actin' like it. You been up here, lickin' your wounds like a dog, and makin' Carol worry. You...you failed Sophia. You're gonna regret that the rest of your life (however long that may be in the goddamn Apocalypse). You weren't fast enough to save the old man. You've been avoiding Glenn like the plague 'cause it hurts too much to see him makin' eyes at Maggie. You weren't wrong when you told Dale the group was broken...but maybe it ain't too late to fix it. Or to at least stop bein' part of the damn problem. 

You finally take your gaze off the tarp covering Dale's body, and stand up from the bike. You are about to start breaking down your campsite when the crunch of dry grass underfoot alerts you that you are no longer alone. The gait is familiar, though, and so you don't immediately dive for a weapon. When you turn around, Glenn is standing there, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and head hanging low. He kicks at the dirt a little before hesitantly raising red, swollen eyes, still a little glassy, to meet yours. 

"Hey," he says softly. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

You frown at the kid, watchin' as he keeps toeing the dirt, drawing lines and whorls in the dust. It reminds you of how he was back in the quarry camp, at the very beginning. Back when he was still more afraid of you than not, and not sure whether you was gonna talk to him or hit him. The thought twists something in your gut and you rub the back of your neck uncomfortably.

"You wanna sit down or somethin'?" you say and immediately can't believe how stupid it sounds. Sure, the kid can just sit a spell while the coffee cake finishes in the oven. Jesus. 

Glenn just nods, though, moving over to your firepit. He drops down to sit with his back to the log you've dragged over, drawing his knees up to his chest. You watch him silently for a moment, before quietly walking over to your tent. You open the flap and start pulling your sleeping bag and blankets out, along with the beat-up old army duffle your clothes are stored in. You start efficiently rolling up the bedroll, content to let the kid work up the nerve to say whatever he wants to in his own time. Ordinarily, it would annoy the piss outta you to have someone just sittin' there watching your every move. It's Glenn, though--and you find it oddly soothing, knowin' he's right there where you can keep an eye on him. You've never really minded the kid's presence, and that right there should've let you know that somethin' was up. 

After a few minutes, you have your belongings stored and stacked next to the firepit. The kid still ain't talkin'. In fact, he's utterly silent until you start takin' your tent down. Then, a soft, distressed noise escapes his mouth and you look up to find him watchin' you with wide eyes.

"You're leaving?!" he says, and damned if he don't sound upset. You stare at him, confused, before you realize what it must look like to him. Hell, far as he knows, you've decided you can't stand to be around any of 'em. 

A smart-ass remark dies in your throat when you see he is genuinely upset. Jesus, he looks like he might start cryin' again...and you kind of want to kick yourself. Kid's always been the sentimental type; of course he'd be upset at losing yet another member of the group right after Dale and Sophia. "Hey," you say, your voice gentler than he's probably ever heard it. "I ain't leavin'," you say solemnly, and try to ignore the warmth that spreads through your chest when he immediately relaxes, relief sharp on his face. 

"Oh," he says, a little stupidly. A blush rises in his cheeks, and you laugh a little as you turn back to the tent to collapse it. It feels good to laugh, even a little bit. "Sooo, where are you going?" he continues. You throw him an incredulous look over your shoulder--good Lord, you know he ain't that thick. 

"Movin' back down with the rest a' y'all," you mumble finally. You can practically hear the kid perk up. 

"Really? That's great!"

"Yeah, well...it's safer. Ain't no sense bein' stupid about it. Can't be any use up here." You don't really mean to add that last part. You ain't beatin' yourself up over what happened to Dale. You know you got there as fast as you could (and you got there first even though you was farther away than everyone else). You did everything you could've done. Don't stop you from wishin' you'd been able to get there a little bit faster. You finish taking the tent down and start rollin' up the fabric. The kid is silent behind you...until finally, he speaks again. 

"So...I guess you wanna be closer to Carol?" he asks, his voice oddly flat and devoid of emotion. The kid isn't looking at you, instead seemin' to find the cooling remains of your fire absolutely fascinating. Your hands freeze in the process of strapping your tent into a compact package, and your brow furrows. 

"Guess I'll set up next ta' her," you allow. "Save 'er a trip when she wants ta' do her fussin'." You try--and you're pretty sure you fail--to sound annoyed at the prospect. Truth is, you have your limits...but it's nice to know someone gives a damn. Besides, Carol's tent is on the opposite side of camp from Glenn's. You know he and Maggie are probably sneakin' around together. You don't wanna have to see it. 

"Yeah. That's good." Glenn doesn't sound very enthusiastic, though. You narrow your eyes, confused, as you chuck the tent in top of your duffle back and sit back on your heels. 

"What is it ya' wanted to talk about?" you ask gruffly. The kid starts, and to your surprise, starts lurching to his feet. 

"Nothing, nothing...it's stupid," he mumbles, swipin' at the dirt on the seat of his pants. "Sorry I bothered you." He turns away and begins walking back across the field separating your camp from the others down at the farmhouse. 

You watch him go for a few seconds, confused and a little irritated, before turning back to the pile of your belongings. Even as you do, though, some instinct is proddin' at you. You aren't sure why...but you're suddenly struck with the feelin' that letting Glenn walk away from you right now would be a very bad thing. There was something about the kid's expression, somethin' about his voice, that's setting off alarm bells in your head. You hesitate for just a moment more, but then you are up and joggin' after him. 

"Hey! Hey, wait up!" you call. You know he hears you, but he just hunches his shoulders and walks faster. What the hell? You speed up, chasin' after him. "Kid! Jesus Christ, Glenn, _wait_!" Maybe it's the use of his name, maybe it's the fact that you actually came after him. Whatever it is, the kid pulls up short, back stiff and shoulders still hunched and defensive. He sighs heavily as you catch up with him, only turning around when you're within a few feet of him. He looks upset--vaguely ill, actually--and you are about to demand an explanation when the kid's inability to keep his mouth shut kicks in. 

"I'm sorry," he blurts.

"What, for runnin' off?"

"No, not for that...I mean, yes, but--God, I've just messed everything up. I'm sorry about that night in the CDC. I was just so drunk, and I thought you wanted it, too. I know you wanted an explanation, but with Jacqui and the explosion and getting out of Atlanta--and then I was just so scared. I didn't want you to hate me!" You blink stupidly, your mouth working soundlessly, but the kid just plunges on. "And then with Sophia getting lost and Carl getting hurt, and you were being so good to Carol, I figured 'geez, why rock the boat?' And Maggie was just...she was right there! She wanted me, and I really do like her, but then she started talking about love and Hershel tried to give me a watch and...I couldn't lead her on like that anymore! Dale's gone, and Maggie's pissed at me and everything's so fucked up and I just...I need you to know I'm sorry! I'm sorry I didn't have the balls to come talk to you, and I'm sorry I came onto you like that. Just...I think I _love_ you and---and oh fuck, oh fuck--I didn't mean to...oh God just kill me now!" The kid finally stops for breath, covering his face with his hands, chest heaving and absolutely burning scarlet to the tips of his ears. 

You stand there stunned for a moment...then your brain picks out three very important facts from the verbal onslaught the boy just unleashed. 

One--evidently Glenn remembered that night at the CDC and your intentions when you told him to come talk to you later a little differently than you did. Not surprising, considering the amount of alcohol he'd had in him. Why the hell didn't you think a' that?

Two--holy shit, he said he loves you. _Loves_ you, present tense. 

Three--he is now backing away from you, babbling out apologies again, hands raised in a placating gesture. 

"Jesus, I'm sorry. You don't need all that laid on you. Just forget I said anything...I--you and Carol are good for each other. I'm happy for you! I am...I'm sorry--"

"Glenn!" you bark out, and the kid's jaw snaps shut with an audible click. He's practically shaking, eyes gone so wide you can see the whites all around. He looks mortified. You reach up and pinch the bridge of your nose. "One thing--did I hear you say you an' Maggie ain't together no more in all that?" The kid swallows, nodding miserably. 

"I--uh--I guess I broke up with her. This morning."

You nod to yourself. "Then let's get one thing straight. Carol's a fine woman." Glenn nods again, even more miserably...and you let your mouth twist into a crooked smile. 

It's always been Glenn reaching out to you. Includin' you. Approaching you when nobody else would. About damn time you reached back. 

"Carol's a fine woman," you repeat, stepping closer, "but she ain't who I been thinkin' about every night." 

You pull the kid into your arms, and he slots against you just as perfectly as if he was made to be there. He freezes for a bare instant, a startled squeak--there is no other word for it--escaping him as you cup his chin with one hand, gentle as you please. Then, you kiss him. It's slow an' sweet an' absolutely perfect. Suddenly, he's throwing his arms around your neck, kissin' you back with more feeling than you think anyone ever has before...and for the first time since even before the world went to shit, you're perfectly, completely _happy_.

 

" _Love always protects..._ "

 

It's a bad idea. You know it's a bad idea, Rick knows it, Glenn knows it. There's no other choice. You all lost most of your supplies escaping the ruin of Hershel's farm. The group needs blankets, clothes, and food. You're good, but there ain't time to hunt enough game to keep everyone fed and still be on the move.

Even if there's only ten of you now. 

So, you know tryin' to scavenge in the Walmart Andrea spotted from the highway is a bad idea. Most of the stores have long been looted, and those that haven't been...well if it ain't been picked clean, it's probably because it's full of Walkers. There is no other choice, though. If there's even the slightest chance of findin' something useful, you have to take it. Glenn volunteers to go, of course. The others make some token protests that it doesn't always have to be him...but you're surprised when the kid just rolls his eyes. He stands up from the small campfire you're all huddled around, back straight and jaw set. 

"Yes it _does_ have to be me. I'm better at it than any of you. I don't want anyone but Rick making decisions for us, I don't want anyone but Andrea and Daryl covering watch, and you don't want anyone but me doing supply runs. So just...stop trying to be polite about it, or whatever." He pushes his ever-present baseball cap down lower on his head and turns to make for the tent the two of you are currently sharing with T-Dog. One by one, every person's eyes turn towards you--some accusing (Lori and Andrea), some just amused and knowing (Carol and, surprisingly, Rick). You duck your head and pretend to be absorbed in sharpenin' the already razor-sharp edge of your buck knife. 

"What?" you grunt, in your most annoyed tone. "I ain't told him ta' say that!"

You're not entirely sure if the rest of the group has realized you and Glenn are 'together' yet. Rick and Carol cottoned on right quick, once you'd all finally managed to stop and catch your breath (you may or may not be responsible for that, what with haulin' the kid bodily out of the RV as soon as you stopped that first night after escapin' the farm, and doin' your level best to kiss the breath out of him right there up against the vehicle's side). T-Dog certainly figured it out when the two of you zipped your sleeping bags together the first night you all crammed into your old huntin' tent. ("Okay look, I'm happy for you and everything, but there's some things a brother just don't wanna see...Lord God, just please keep the boxers on until we get some more tents, okay?")

The rest of 'em...well, it ain't like you and Glenn go around holdin' hands and singin' love songs. For one thing, neither of you see a need to broadcast and for another--well, it don't seem fair to shove your relationship in Maggie's face. She and Hershel are still reelin' from losin' what little family they had left, and Hershel ain't handling Beth's death well at all. Maggie's worrying herself sick over her father, and you see no reason to be cruel to the girl. Ain't like you have any room to blame her for fallin' for Glenn. 

The next mornin', bright and early, Glenn slings the largest empty duffle bag the group has available over his shoulder and goes to wait quietly by the green Honda Rick, Lori, and Carl are using to travel in. You're down to the RV, the Honda, and your bike--and much as you love that bike, it's a noisy bastard. Too noisy for a supply run. You fill the quiver on your crossbow with as many extra bolts as you can fit and quietly tuck a pistol and two clips of ammo into the waistband of your jeans. 

No one says a word about you joining Glenn on his run. Hell _you and Glenn_ never said a word about it last night. You just assumed you'd be going as well, and apparently so did he. Apparently so did everybody. 

You try not to smile at that thought, but judging by the way Glenn is grinning at you, you don't succeed. You're in too good a mood to care. 

The Walmart is part of a small strip mall just off the highway. Neither of you are holdin' out much hope that the place hasn't already been raided, but you're slightly encouraged when the place proves to be out of the way and filled with stores that obviously closed long before the apocalypse. The Walmart, a dollar store, and a Christian bookstore appear to be the only things that were still functioning at the start of the outbreak. There are no abandoned cars in the weed-strewn parking lot and the two of you share a somewhat hopeful look. 

The hope dies as soon as you actually make it to the doors. The glass is almost totally busted out and even from outside, you can see the shelves at the front of the store have been tossed. The entryway is littered with the bodies of Walkers, most in Walmart uniforms (and wouldn't that just be a bitch? Stuck in a fuckin' Walmart for all eternity...) and you take note of the single, precise bullet holes in most of the heads. Someone knew what they was doin'. The smell is godawful--though probably more godawful is the fact that the two of you barely register it anymore--and the buzz of flies is a constant, droning hum. You glance over at Glenn, silently raising your eyebrow in question. Supply runs are his show, after all. He shrugs fractionally, hefting his customary baseball bat. 

"Can't hurt to look," he whispers. "Especially if someone already put down all the geeks. Even a box of instant grits would be awesome right now."

You snort, shootin' him a sideways glare. "What's wrong with grits? I ate grits 'most every day growin' up."

"Yeah, and look how you turned out! Grits are evil, man." There is nothing but teasin' affection in the kid's voice, though, and his eyes are twinkling with amusement. 

"Obviously, ain't nobody ever fixed your grits right. An' I thought you liked the way I turned out," you mutter as the two of you cautiously make your way further into the store. 

"Yeah...I kinda do," Glenn says softly from behind you, and you can damn near hear the blush in his voice. It does funny things to your stomach (well all right, and areas _south_ of the border), and you silently resolve to find T-Dog his own goddamn tent ASA-fuckin'-P. "You hear anything moving?" Glenn asks after a moment. 

You cock your head, slightly, listenin'. The interior of the store is eerily silent--no telltale dragging shuffles or gruesome moans. You shake your head and look back at the kid. He bites his lips for a moment, then pulls the duffle bag off his shoulder, handin' it over. "It'll be faster if we split up...I don't wanna press our luck. I'll hit the canned food and pharmacy aisles...you head over to sporting goods and housewares. If there's any camping equipment left, you know what we need better than I do. Meet back here in forty five minutes?"

You don't like the idea of him wanderin' around by himself...but it's a good plan. Silently, you take the bag--and he actually looks a little startled when you do so without argument. "What? Said it yourself, you're the best at this. You think we should split up, we split up." You move past him to head to the sporting goods section, and you cannot help but let your hand trail along the length of his arm as you brush by him. 

Something on one of the cash register displays catches your eye as you pass, and you let out a soft whistle to get his attention before he gets too far away from you. When he turns around, you throw one of the objects to him, grabbin' another for yourself. "One burst if you're in trouble...two if ya' find somethin' good an' need help carryin'."

He just stares at you incredulously, the shiny silver whistle on its hot pink lanyard dangling from his fingers. "Dude!" he calls as you resume your trek towards the other side of the store. "Did you seriously just give me a pink _rape whistle_?"

Your shoulders are shaking with silent laughter at his affronted tone. 

He forgets his irritation when your two short blasts on your own whistle bring him running to the back stock room half an hour later...where you're happily stacking a sixth winter-weight sleeping bag on top of the three brand new two-person tents you found stacked up on the shelves.

 

" _It always trusts..._ "

 

The two of you are damn near heroes when you get back to where the others are camped. You were right about the food and medicine being picked pretty clean, but Glenn did manage to scrounge up several cans--includin', to your amusement, a couple boxes of instant grits--and two bottles of Tylenol. The real prize, though, is the camping gear. 

Everyone is relieved to have the extra space. Hershel and Maggie, and Rick and his family agree to alternate between sleepin' in the RV and sleepin' in one of the new tents. Carol and Andrea will share another while you and Glenn take the third, leavin' T-Dog to take your old tent as his own. It works out well, and the mood in camp is quite a bit brighter that night than it has been. It only improves when you manage to bring down a wild turkey for dinner that night. It's lean, a little tough, and the feathers take for fuckin' ever to skin off...but you show Carol how to set it up on a spit to roast over the fire and it makes a damn fine meal. 

The instant grits, however, really do turn out to be evil. You feel sorry for anyone who's grown up thinkin' that's how grits're supposed to taste. 

You and Glenn are on opposite watch shifts for the night, so there's no opportunity to enjoy havin' the tent to yourselves. Or the next night. The night after, you stop in a small rest area by the side of the highway...only to have to immediately pull up stakes again when at least twenty Walkers come boiling out of the woods behind the information office. 

In fact, nearly a week and a half passes before you find yourselves in the remains of a youth camp that had been closed for the season when the outbreak hit. The structures are too spread out and full of hard-to-fortify windows to make staying there a viable option...but it'll do for a few days while you, Rick, and Hershel try to figure out your next move. You find signs indicating there's a pretty large group of deer in the area, and resolve to try and bag a few to start dryin' for the winter. 

You and Glenn crawl into your tent that night and it hits you, really hits you, that this is the first time the two of you have been alone together--really alone--with the whole night stretchin' before you. The thought seems to hit the kid at the same time, and he turns to you with an eager, happy grin lightin' his face. Your breath catches a little, and you can damn near hear Merle's voice in your head laughin' at you for bein' such a damn girl. Just...damn, ain't no one ever looked at you like that. 

Oh, you ain't never had problems attractin' interested parties. Merle might've teased ya' mercilessly, but you know women ain't never found it a chore to look at ya'. You've been _wanted_ before. Glenn though, Glenn looks at you like you're his entire fuckin' world. You're pretty damn sure that he sees the exact same thing when you look at him. 'Cause he is. Somewhere, some way, this kid who is everything you was raised to hate has become the one thing in this world that is absolutely _necessary_. 

It's a terrifyin' thought. 

Glenn's shuckin' his shirt and jeans like you're timing him and all you can do is stare. The two of you have been sleepin' together for two weeks and that's literally all you been doin'. Sleepin'. Hell, even after Mr. Holy-shit-boys-boxers-on vacated the premises, you been too tired or too cold to strip all the way. And you're pretty damn far from a blushing virgin, but this suddenly feels different than anythin' you ever done before. It ain't even the fact that Glenn is, well, a man. Although...yeah, you can admit you're a little nervous about that. 

No, what's really striking you is how damn close it all is. Pansy-ass as it sounds, you ain't never slept with someone you actually thought you might love. It's...different. 

Glenn has finally remembered that he needs to kick his shoes off before he can get rid of his jeans. He kicks his clothes to one corner of the tent and finally turns back around to face you, standing in just his underwear. He freezes when he sees you've made no move to take off any of your own clothing. His brow furrows...but to your surprise, he doesn't look uncomfortable or pissed. 

"Hey," he says, his voice soft and gentle. "You...uh...you know we don't have to--you know, do anything. Unless you want to. Cause I do...but only if you do. I'm totally cool with waiting. Taking it slow. Not that I, like, think we're going too fast...ah geez. Can I start over?"

Just like that, your nervousness disappears. It's just you and the kid. There ain't nothin' to be nervous about. 

You shake your head slightly, steppin' forward into Glenn's personal space. You wrap your arms around his slighter frame, sliding your hands over the warm skin of his back. You kiss him lazily, drawing him tight against you. You feel one of his hands tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck while the other starts workin' at the buttons on your shirt. 

And you ain't...you ain't sure what you ever did in your life that was right enough to deserve something this good, this wonderful, when everything else has gone right to shit. You're just grateful for it, whatever it was. 

You grin against his mouth and as one, you both stumble to the other side of your tent, collapsing onto the pile of blankets and sleeping bags. You lie back, drawing the kid down to stretch out on top of you as he furiously starts pushing your shirt aside. You close your eyes a moment when you have both finally tossed any remaining clothes aside, just reveling in the feel of his skin against your own, in the warm, solid weight of him pressin' down on you. It doesn't matter what you end up doing...it's going to be the most perfect thing you've ever felt. 

Rick comes to you in the morning and, blushing red as a fuckin' tomato, asks if you wouldn't mind movin' your tent to the other side of the camp from the RV. 

 

" _Love always hopes..._ "

 

The rain is starting to come down even harder, though that hardly seems possible. The wind is blowin' so hard it looks like it's rainin' _sideways_ and the thunder peals are deafening. It's impossible to see more n' a few feet in front of your face. Smart thing to do would be to go hole up in the RV with the rest of 'em. Ain't no sense tryin' to keep watch in this, and no Walker is gonna pick up the scents of the camp in this weather. Rick, Carol, T-Dog, and Andrea have all tried to get you to see sense, to come in out of the rain before you catch your death...but you will be goddamned if you move. 

It's been almost two days. Forty-eight hours. Glenn said he'd be gone for twenty-four tops. 

You should've gone with him. The thought swirls in your head constantly, a bitter, aching refrain that you can't get away from. It don't matter that you were low on food and the huntin' was too good to pass up around here. It don't matter that Glenn has done dozens, hundreds of these supply runs by himself. You should've gone with him. The others started givin' you side-eye glances as soon as it became clear that Glenn wasn't just runnin' a little late. Worryin' glances. Nervous. Rick about had to sit on you to keep you from chargin' into the city after him. Eventually, it was Carol who finally got you to see sense. 

You're holed up just outside of what used to be Augusta. You don't know the city, you don't know what route Glenn would've took once he got inside the city limits, you don't know where to begin to look. Goin' after him just runs the risk of you gettin' lost, too...and you might need to make a quick getaway when Glenn gets back. 

Those are the arguments that kept you here as the hours ticked by...but now the nervous looks and stares have taken on a different flavor. Now they're lookin' like they're trying to figure out how to get you to see Glenn ain't comin' back. You heard Lori and Rick whispering furiously a few hours ago, Lori demanding to know how long the group was gonna wait here. Oh, you'll give the woman credit, she was upset. Her eyes had been filled with tears as she begged Rick to get you to understand that Glenn would've been back by now if he was comin'. Much as you wanna be angry at her for just writin' Glenn off, you know better. Everyone in this group cares about Glenn. Even he and Maggie have managed to work their way to a friendship. They aren't just abandonin' him. 

You _do_ understand that chances are, Glenn ran into too many Walkers to get away from. Your mind has been torturin' you with images of your boy bein' swarmed, pulled apart by grasping, dead fingers as he screamed and screamed for you. You know the likelihood that you're gonna see the Honda's headlights trundlin' up the road leading to your camp is gettin' smaller and smaller with every second that passes. 

You haven't slept. You've barely eaten. All you've done is keep watch on that access road. Your clothes and hair are plastered to your skin, the meager protection of the umbrella mounted on top of the RV no match for the storm. You ain't goin' in yet, though. You'll stand watch on that road until the Almighty Himself comes down to tell ya' that Glenn ain't comin' back...'cause that's the only way you'll believe it. 

Fuck 'em. Fuck every last one of 'em. You'd know. You'd fuckin' _know_ if Glenn was dead. 

You would. 

The storm eventually wears itself out, the torrential downpour settling into a merely steady rain. Someone breaks out one of the precious cans of instant soup and pours it all in a thermos for you, piping hot. You want to rage at them, yell that they damn well don't need to start treatin' you like an invalid and wastin' supplies to try and "comfort" you. But they don't understand, and you are cold, so you take the soup and try to save some for later. 

For Glenn to have later. Because you'd know.

You'd know, and so when you finally spot the lone figure stumbling up the access road towards your vehicles, you don't sound any alarm. You cautiously get down from the roof, making barely a sound even in your heavy boots and start making your way towards it. You can see clearer as your eyes adjust to the dark away from the lamps on the RV. He's limping, badly. Somewhere along the line he lost his hat and his jacket. He's just as soaked as you are and looking every inch a drowned rat. When he looks up from his feet though, finally hearing your approach, a relieved smile breaks across his face. 

"Daryl?" he croaks pitifully, and it's the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. You're runnin', suddenly, reaching him just as his legs give out. You catch him around the waist and lower him gently to the wet asphalt. Instantly, you start running anxious hands over his body, your heart in your throat until he bats weakly at your chest. "M not bit. They didn't get me."

You sag back in relief, just pulling him to your chest. You kiss him frantically--his lips, his cheek, his forehead, and for the first time in almost two days you feel like you are takin' a full breath. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and the two of you just hold each other. He's trembling, though, shaking and cold and hurt and you lean back from him slightly. 

"Hey!" you shout, knowing that someone will hear you. None of you are heavy sleepers anymore. "Hey! I need some help, here!" you see one of the lights go on in the RV's windows and turn back to Glenn. "It's okay," you whisper, "you're okay. You're gonna be fine." You say it over an over and you're not sure if it's for your benefit or his. Behind you, you hear the sound of runnin' feet, Rick and Andrea's voices raised is questioning shouts. You just clutch Glenn tighter, kissing the top of his head. 

 

" _It always perseveres..._ "

The hotel is probably the safest place you've found in a while. It ain't one of the big chain ones...but it's a few steps up from a simple no-tell motel. It's a two story affair with sixteen rooms on each floor. More importantly, it still uses actual keys instead of cards, so you don't have to break into the rooms. It's set back far enough off the highway that it doesn't look like any other survivors have found it or gone through it. There's a total of seven Walkers in the front office and a couple of the lower level rooms, but they're easily put down. 

You all go through the place carefully and decide as a group to put down stakes here for as long as you can. Lori's due date is in a couple months, Hershel figures, and though the worst of winter is over, no one is gonna pass up a chance ta' have insulated walls and actual beds for a while. Shame there's no water for the showers, but there's a small lake only a few miles up the road that you can make do with. 

The real treasure, though, is found in the small diner attached to the front office that the place evidently did enough business to support. 

More specifically, it's untouched pantry full of restaurant-sized canned goods. 

It's a fuckin' party that night, the likes of which you ain't seen since that night at the CDC all those months ago. Carol and Lori throw together a huge pot of vegetable soup, and serve it up with applesauce, canned peaches and (Lord God almighty, Heaven is smilin' on y'all) a family-sized box of Twinkies that was in one of the cabinets in the employee locker room. 

You circle your vehicles (the RV, the old Toyota Rav4 you replaced the Honda with, and the camper-topped F150 you finally abandoned the bike for last month) as close as you can around the stairwell leading up to the second level. Hopefully, they'll form enough of a barrier against any Walkers that you'll be able to get to your cars and get the hell out should the need arise. When that's done, you all retire to the rooms you picked out earlier in the day. 

You and Glenn take the corner room closest to the stairwell--coincidentally the only one with a king-sized bed. The bedclothes are musty and the air in the room is hot and close after being closed up for who knows how long. 

Your bellies are full, though. You're as close to safe as you ever get these days. And there is an actual, honest-to-God bed that you will be sleepin' in tonight. A king-sized bed. Glenn smirks at you as he dumps his bag on the floor and immediately reaches down to dig the bottle of slick that you currently count as one of your most precious possessions out of the front pocket. 

Okay, so you're not just gonna be sleepin' in the bed. 

Glenn bounces experimentally on the mattress as you drop your own gear, setting the crossbow on the dresser beside the dust-covered television set. Glenn is still bouncing when you turn back around, a slightly manic smile on his face. 

"Just how many a' them Twinkies did ya' eat?" you ask, grinnin' at his antics. 

"Hey, I wanna know just how much of a workout this mattress can take!"

"That so?" you ask lowly, restin' one hand on his shoulder. Glenn tilts his face upwards, licking his lips...and then ruins the effect by yawning widely. You laugh, pushin' him backwards to lie back on the mattress. 

"Sorry," he says. "Long day."

Truthfully, with the huge meal and the exertion of clearing this place, you're pretty tired yourself. "Well, looks like we're stayin' a while. We got time to give it a proper workout." Glenn grins up at you, reachin' up with one hand to lace his fingers through yours and tugging you down gently to lay beside him. 

"True. Well in that case, I have just one thing to say." He leans up on one elbow, his other hand findin' it's way to your hair and cardin' through it gently. 

"Yeah, an' what's that?"

"I call big spoon!" He cackles as he scrambles to his knees, pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. 

You hitch yourself up, an' fix him with a narrow look. "For about the fiftieth time, it don't work like that!"

He just smirks at you, and starts undoin' the buttons on his jeans. Lord help you, how you do love this boy.

* * * 

"An' now faith, hope, and love abide...but the greatest a' these is love," you finish, your voice barely above a whisper. "An' I love you. More th'n anything in my whole life." 

It's a Bible verse--the only thing out of that book you ever committed to memory. It's words your Granny whispered to you when you was small, sittin' in her lap while she rocked you. It's the verse your Grandpa read her on their weddin' day, and it's the only thing you think might even begin ta' say what the kid is to you. Glenn is starin' up at you, and damned if his eyes aren't a little shiny as he smiles. That big, open smile that makes you feel like maybe everything will be all right, s'long as he can find something to smile like that about. Your hands are actually shakin' a little as you slide the ring (nothin' fancy...a plain gold band you discreetly swiped from a mostly-looted jewelry store on a supply run last week) onto his finger. You smile as you see it's almost a perfect fit. 

"I don't...I don't know anything special to say back," he says softly, plucking the slightly larger, matching band from your outstretched hand. 

"Don't need to," you murmur, tightening your grip on his free hand, runnin' your thumb over the smooth metal of his ring. 

"Then...just, I love you too. More than anything in my whole life." He pushes your own ring onto your finger, raisin' your hand to brush his lips over it. You lean in close, cupping his face gently and kissing him like it's the first time you ever done it, and it suddenly don't matter that you ain't in a church or a court house (or a goddamn drive-thru chapel in Las Vegas), and there ain't no one giving you vows to say an' pronouncin' you married. 

There's you and him, swearin' your feelin's to each other. You don't need nothin' else. 

He keeps his eyes closed when you part, pressin' his forehead against yours as his breathing goes ragged, choked like he's tryin' to keep control of himself. "I'm _sorry_ ," he gasps, and you immediately pull him more tightly against you. 

"Don't ya' start that," you tell him firmly, but he just shakes his head. 

"I should've been faster, I should've just dropped the damn bag and run."

You shift slightly on the dirty floor, drawin' him closer, damn near pullin' him into your lap. "It don't matter, just stop, it don't matter." 

He pushes his face against your neck, arms wrapped around you as tightly as he can. You sigh softly, your eyes focusin' on the door across the small stock room you've barricaded yourselves in. It's pretty sturdy, with a good deadbolt. You've dragged a couple sets of heavy metal shelves across it. It'll hold a while, yet. The door is still tremblin', though, vibrating in its frame from the force of putrid, rotting fists poundin' against it. It does nothin' to muffle the moans and groans of the group of Walkers on the other side. 

The supply run has turned into a clusterfuck. Things had looked so deserted, and you ventured too far into the town looking for food. When the herd--fuckin' _herd_ \--of Walkers came shambling out of the remains of a high school gym after T-Dog accidentally knocked into an abandoned car, settin' off the fuckin' alarm, you all got separated. 

You've managed to blockade yourselves into the small storeroom of the grocery store you and Glenn was picking through when the Walkers swarmed. You ain't sure what happened to Rick and T-Dog, if they're even still alive, but you're pretty sure you saw them hustle into the building across the street from the grocery store right before you hollered for Glenn to run for the back. There's a window high on the wall behind you. It's big enough to get through, but the damn thing has a barred screen over it that's padlocked from the outside. T-Dog had a crowbar with him that could pop it off...but unless they figure out a way to come around through the alley to get you and Glenn, you're stuck. 

The door shudders again as a hollow thud echoes in the storeroom. Glenn shivers in your arms, pressin' his face even closer into your neck and you reach up to stroke his hair, brushin' your lips over his temple. 

"I'm sorry, Daryl," he says again. You just shake your head. You don't want to hear apologies, you don't want to re-hash what went wrong and how it could've been prevented. Right now, you just want to hold him, want to enjoy this moment between you and try not to think about how different it should be. How you'd wanted it to be. 

You should've been standin' up in front of all your friends (your family now, if you're bein' honest), promisin' yourselves to each other while Hershel presided, recitin' proper vows. It should not have been like this--huddled on a dirty floor with only yourselves and a bunch of corpses to witness. But that don't matter now. 

None of it matters. 

Rick an' T-Dog will come back for you. Or they won't. The Walkers will lose interest if the door holds long enough. Or they won't. You can't find it in yourself to care. You just hold the man who is your everything in your arms, twining your fingers around his and gently rubbin' the ring on his finger. 

And try not to look at the blood slowly soaking through the bandana you hastily tied around his forearm. 

You hold him as close as you can, as though you can keep him here, with you, if you just hold him tight enough. As though you can protect him from the sickness already coursin' through him, spreadin' from the jagged bite wound under your dirty bandana. 

"I'm so sorry," he repeats, voice broken, close to tears. You know he ain't apologizin' for not movin' quick enough for the two of you to get out of the store.

He's beggin' your forgiveness for leavin' you alone in this world. 

How long you sit there, huddled together, you don't know. Minutes, hours, days...your entire world has narrowed to the man in your arms, to his shudderin' breaths and the too-fast heartbeat you feel poundin' against his ribs. The door shakes and rocks, rattlin' the shelves shoved against it...but it holds. It holds, and as more and more time passes, you feel the subtle changes in Glenn. His breath grows harsher. More ragged. A sheen of sweat that has nothin' to do with the warm, close air of the storage room covers his skin. You can feel unnatural heat buildin' in his face, still tucked under your chin. 

Against your will, your mind casts back all those months ago to Jim. To the way he'd moaned and screamed with every movement, as though he was bein' eaten alive from the inside out. He'd hurt so much. You hadn't really cared at the time...but now. Jesus, now. Now your heart's damn near tearin' itself in two at the thought of Glenn sufferin' like that. 

As if he knows the turn your thoughts have taken, he raises his head weakly, eyes already bright with fever. "Daryl," he mumbles, liftin' one hand to lay against your cheek, "it hurts."

You bite your lip hard enough ta' taste blood, and your eyes start to burn. "I know. Ya want...want me to--" He silences you with a kiss, swallowin' the rest of that awful sentence. You clutch him to you, kissin' him back for all you're worth, and slowly, slowly, draw your pistol from the waistband of your jeans. He pulls back from you, though, reachin' down to grip your wrist. 

"No," he says firmly. "The noise'll just work them up more...there's still a chance enough of them will wander off for you to get out of here."

You gape at him for a moment, before slowly shakin' your head. "Glenn," you rasp out, and when did your throat get so tight? "You really think I'm walkin' outta here without ya'?"

He closes his eyes briefly, his jaw working. When he looks at you again, his eyes are filled with tears. "You have to. They can't lose us both."

"Don't...don't ya' ask that a' me." Your voice is shakin' and you cannot, you _cannot_ imagine goin' on without him...not even for the little group that's been kin in your mind since the farm. 

But Glenn is shakin' his head. "You have to. Daryl, you..you promise me you'll get out of this if--if you can. They need you too much. They'll need you more with...with me gone." 

He's gaspin' by the end of his sentence...and you...you ain't never been good at denyin' the kid anything. You press your lips together and nod, reachin' up to angrily scrub at your eyes, suddenly gone blurry and wet. Glenn relaxes instantly, smilin' at you again. You shift him slightly, pullin' him to sit between your legs, pressed sideways against your chest with his legs tucked under one of your bent knees. You take your knife from its sheath on your belt. 

"Love you," you whisper. "You're the best damn thing that ever happened to me. Ya' know that."

His smile turns softer. "Course I do. I just married you, didn't I?" He doesn't flinch when you curl your arm around him to lay the tip of your knife against the base of his skull, layin' your other hand right at the hollow of his throat. 

"I trust you," he says simply. Trusts you to make it quick. Trusts you ta' make it painless. You lean forward, kiss him one more time. 

For the last time. 

"Ya' best wait for me," you mutter. You ain't sure if you believe in God or Heaven anymore--if you ever did to begin with--but if there is a Heaven, you know that's where the kid's headin'. And surely the hell y'all been livin' here on Earth is enough to outweigh any bad deeds in your past. 

"I'll see you on the other side," he says, and it sounds like a promise. 

You are quick. 

A hard push against his collar bone and a brutal thrust upwards with the blade. There is a single, short gasp, a grunt of surprise that chokes off into awful, awful silence. You twist the knife once and jerk it out, flinging it away from you with a choking, anguished gasp. He slumps in your hold, head coming to rest on your shoulder. You can feel the gush of hot blood slipping down your arm, but you pay it no mind. You gather him close, still gasping. Wretched, harsh breaths that want to be screams, want to be sobs, but it is literally too big, too much pain to escape your throat. 

You hold him close, restin' your cheek on the softness of his hair, and it just about kills you to feel the stillness in his body. No breath. No laughter. No teasin'. Not ever again. You feel the weight of the gun restin' against your leg where you set it aside, burnin' like a firebrand through your jeans. It would be so easy...

But no. 

You made the kid a promise. You ain't gonna sit and wait to be set upon if the Walkers break through, but you promised you'd get out of here if you could. You squeeze your eyes shut, and just rub your cheek against his hair. Eventually the dark strands against your skin grow wet...but not with blood. 

The light slantin' through the window above your head has gone deep orange when a new noise on the other side of the door catches your attention. The poundin' has died down, but there's still enough moanin' and shufflin' on the other side of the door that you know it ain't safe to try and leave yet. You're honestly not sure if you _want_ it to be safe enough to leave. 

There is a new scufflin' coming from outside in the store, though, faster and louder than you're used to hearin' Walkers move. 

"Daryl! Glenn! You in there?" The door rattles again, but this time it's accompanied by frantic knocking, and Rick's anxious voice. You swallow heavily, and shift Glenn in your arms. 

Layin' him down is the hardest thing you've ever had to do. 

You hitch yourself to your feet, muscles stiff and aching from sittin' in the same position for so long. You already feel colder, feel somethin' wrong without the reassuring weight of Glenn in your arms. It's a feelin' you're gonna have to get used to...you promised. You lick your lips, clearin' your throat. "Yeah...yeah, I'm here!" you call back. 

Just you, now. 

You move over to the door, puttin' your shoulder against the metal shelves you and Glenn dragged in front of the door. It's so much harder to shove them aside on your own. Finally, though, you push them back against the wall enough that you can get to the door. You throw the deadbolt and let the door fall open, revealin' Rick, T-Dog, and Andrea. You can see Maggie, Carl, and Hershel behind 'em They must've gone for reinforcements, you realize dully. There are at least eight Walkers laid out on the floor, heads bashed in expertly. 

"Thank God," Rick breathes. "We thought--" He breaks off suddenly, his eyes sharpenin'. You see it as he takes in the blood that's soaked into your shirt. Your hallow-eyed expression. He looks past you, over your shoulder, and he goes dead white. "No," he whispers, "oh Jesus, no..."

You ignore him, turnin' back into the storage room. There's no tellin' how much time you have. You ignore the bag of supplies Glenn dropped by the door. You fuckin' ignore your crossbow. You only have eyes for the figure slumped underneath the window. You stride over and crouch down beside him. It's awkward as hell. Glenn is...was...thin, but he wasn't light. You grunt in exertion as you heft him into your arms, somethin' inside of you splinterin' further when you feel how cool his skin has gotten, how his limbs are just startin' to stiffen. It's hard to lift him, but hell if you're gonna just toss him over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Hell if you're gonna let anyone else carry him out of here. You hear gasps behind you, Rick's voice murmurin' something. Someone starts to sob, brokenly. You ignore it. 

You stagger out of the storeroom, arms straining and sweat standin' out on your brow. T-Dog and Rick move to help, but they immediately back away at the ferocity of your glare. You stumble towards the front of the store, leavin' the others to gather up anything left behind. The Rav4 and your truck are parked just outside the store.

You will take him back to camp. You will bury him, and you will endure everyone crowdin' around you in their grief. You will go on. You promised him you would. You'll keep goin'...until your body finally realizes that your heart's already gone. 

You lay him in the bed of the truck, and hold his hand the whole way back to camp, your matchin' rings clicking together softly with every bump and jolt in the road. 

 

End.


End file.
